


Interludes

by notmyrevolution



Series: upstairs/downstairs [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles relating to the Upstairs/Downstairs verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shirts

**Author's Note:**

> Ryssa wanted something with U/D Grantaire and Jehan hanging out and for some reason this is what I came up with. IDEK.

“Fuck!”

Jehan looks up, alarmed, at the noise. He glances around once, quickly, making sure the floor is empty of customers, before finding the source of the swearing.

It is, unsurprisingly, Grantaire.

“What’s with the swearing?” Jehan asks, curiously. Grantaire turns around, and the look on his face is enough to cause Jehan to start laughing. He looks  _pathetic_.

“I spilt my coffee, and…” Grantaire trails off, gesturing to the spreading stain in his shirt.

“Hm. I’ve heard that brown and green go together, you know,” Jehan says, and Grantaire glares at him.

“Do we have any spare in stock, so I don’t have to buy one?” Grantaire asks, scowling at his shirt.

“White, or there’s ivory,” Jehan suggests, and Grantaire looks horrified.

“Fuck that, I’ll look like a  _waiter_ ,” he says, nose wrinkling.

“There’s floral?” Jehan offers.

“Won’t we clash?” Grantaire says, sarcasm lacing his voice.

“Clashing is what’s fashionable,” Jehan says, ignoring his tone. Grantaire groans, running a hand through his hair, before nodding.

“Fuck it. Okay, the floral print then,” He says, scowling, “I’m not wearing goddamn ivory or white, I’ll look like I belong upstairs.”

Jehan laughs, and disappears to stock, finding a spare shirt in Grantaire’s size. When he returns, Grantaire’s waistcoat is off, laying across the counter, and Grantaire is looking slightly uncomfortable.

“What is it?” Jehan asks, tilting his head as he holds out the shirt.

“I don’t,” Grantaire stops, the tries again, “I should go into the fitting rooms.”

“No one is down here,” Jehan says gently, smiling softly at Grantaire. “It’s okay.”

Grantaire’s face twists as he follows his own internal dialogue, before he sighs and unbuttons his own shirt half way, followed by the sleeves. He grabs the collar with both hands and yanks up. Jehan almost cringes at this, and he’s secretly glad that Grantaire decided to stop wearing a suit and tie to work. Grantaire treats the things around him almost reverently, but anything of his own he has a complete disregard for, as if their value is an extension of his own.

Jehan raises his eyebrows, making a quiet noise in his throat.

“Yeah, I know. I’m not really much to look at,” Grantaire says, sneers, looking down at his stomach. He’s not fit, not by conventional standards, though how he looks to Jehan and how he looks to himself are obviously different. He inhales deeply, pulling his stomach muscles in and scowling.

“Stop that,” Jehan scolds, before stepping forward. “That was  _not_  what I was looking at.”

He reaches out, slowly enough for Grantaire to move away if he wanted, before curling his hands around Grantaire’s wrists and turning his arms over.

“Oh,” Grantaire says, quietly. Jehan’s fingers trace over the black lines and dots that dominate his left arm, criss-crossing over each other before ending at his shoulder. The pattern is elaborate and intricate, the result of several long hours spent in the chair.

“Did it hurt?” Jehan asks, curiously.

“They drag a needle over your flesh,” Grantaire replies, sardonically. Jehan looks up and glares.

“Don’t sass me, I can end you.” He says, smiling.

“…you’re terrifying sometimes, Prouvaire,” Grantaire laughs, dropping his arm as Jehan releases his wrist. He shakes it out, and takes the new shirt, thumb brushing over the collar gently. Something that is not his.

Jehan moves to his right forearm, and studies the roses, tattooed to look like watercolour on his skin. They burst in blooms, escaping from the lines, bleeding out deliberately. He doesn’t once look at Grantaire’s body.

“You’re beautiful,” Jehan says.

Not them, not your tattoos,  _you_.

Grantaire flushes pink, and pulls on the new shirt, fingers flying as he buttons it, and he doesn’t look back up until his waistcoat is back in place. Jehan can tell he’s uncomfortable.

But he spends the rest of the day smiling in a way Jehan hasn’t seen before.


	2. Measurements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras already knows this is a bad idea.
> 
> (Where measurements are taken, or at least hypothetically.)

Enjolras already knows this is a bad idea.

Enjolras is the pinnacle of failing to recognise when ideas _aren't strictly good,_ and even he knows that this is a bad one.

Yet he's still here, standing downstairs, watching Grantaire walk towards him brandishing a tape measure.

“Suit jacket off, please, monsieur,” Grantaire says, voice and manner a perfect, professional salesman. Enjolras rolls his eyes and shrugs out of his jacket, gently draping it across the back of a chair. He rolls his shoulders, glad to be momentarily free from its confines.

“Huh,” Grantaire says, a huff of noise that causes Enjolras to look over.

“What?” He asks, eyebrow raising.

Grantaire swallows, almost unnoticeable, then smiles. “Nothing, just admiring your uniform. Sorry, outfit.”

Jehan is off the floor, Enjolras notices, finding something upstairs, and there are no customers around. Which means they're alone. Together.

Enjolras's frustrating attraction to Grantaire has only become worse with his phone number in Grantaire's hands. He gets messages during the day, a casual note that Grantaire is _bored as hell and all alone down here_ , or that he's _going for a drink after work, come loosen your tie with us ;-)_. Enjolras had caved and started texting back, however that had only encouraged Grantaire's flirting.  

This is why Enjolras knows this is a bad idea.

He starts off agonisingly casual. Grantaire keeps himself at a reasonable distance, touching with only his hands as he directs Enjolras where to put his arms for measuring. He runs the tape across his shoulders succinctly and professionally, speaking the measurements aloud to himself.

“Aren’t you going to write them down?” Enjolras asks, looking over his shoulder and watching Grantaire stoop to bring the tape along his arm.

“Nope,” Grantaire says, eyes focused on the numbers on the tape, one shoulder shrugging. “Thirty-five and a half. No, I don’t need to, I’ll remember them.”

Enjolras makes a humming sound, an acknowledgement, and faces forward again. 

Grantaire moves around him, until they’re facing each other. He reaches up, threading the tape around Enjolras’s neck. He holds it with two fingers tucked against Enjolras's skin, and Enjolras feels his breath catch slightly, because that’s when it starts. Grantaire is leaning in to look at the tape, still seemingly professional, but his thumb traces along the edge of Enjolras’s collar. It brushes up to his jaw, a soft caress, and Grantaire’s eyes flick up to Enjolras’s face, as if waiting for either acceptance or rejection. Enjolras swallows, and he knows Grantaire can feel it.

"Sixteen," he says, and Enjolras doesn't miss the rough edge to his voice, or the way his thumb stutters over his skin.

"Arms up," Grantaire says, hands moving away. He doesn't step back, though, staying well within Enjolras's personal space. He can feel Grantaire's body rise and fall with his breathing, and Enjolras feels sluggish as he lifts his arms.

Grantaire's arms go around him, looping the tape across his body, and Enjolras is acutely aware of the way this brings them flush together. He knows there's no reason for Grantaire to be this close, no need for their chests to be pressed so they're inhaling and exhaling in tandem. Enjolras's hands subconsciously move, but instead of dropping back to his side, they land on Grantaire's shoulders, balancing him. He can feel the warmth through the fabric of his shirt, feel the coiled muscles there, and this isn't the first time he's imagined what Grantaire looks like beneath his clothes.

"Forty," Grantaire says, breathing the words out and Enjolras watches his eyes drop, not to the measurement on the tape but to Enjolras's mouth. They both lick their lips, and it would be _so easy_ just to close the distance--

Then Grantaire moves, and Enjolras can breathe. The tape loosens and drops, settling above his suit trousers, where Grantaire pulls it tight again.

“There’s the standard six inches here,” Grantaire says, fingers holding them tape firm around his hips, thought the way he says the words makes Enjolras think something else entirely. Grantaire’s eyes flick down, back up, and he smirks slowly. “Apparently it’s eight for you.”

Enjolras's body is humming, conflicted between frustration and arousal. He doesn't even care about the suit anymore, and the smirk on Grantaire's face confirms that _he_ knows this, too.

Then, _fuck_ , Grantaire is dropping to his knees.

Enjolras can feel Grantaire's fingers tracing along the inside of his leg, smoothing the tape measure along the inseam of his trousers. Enjolras lets out a shuddering breath and tells himself not to get hard, but his body doesn't listen, blood rushing as he feels Grantaire's breath against his thigh. The weave of the fabric is fine, expensive, and it means Enjolras can feel _everything._

He glances down, meeting Grantaire's eyes, and swallows.

"Thirty four and a half inches," Grantaire says, _purrs_ , committing the measurement to memory. Enjolras doesn't speak, tries not to even breathe deeply for fear he might say something considered wildly inappropriate. Except Grantaire is on his knees, and his fingers haven't moved. Instead his thumb lifts, dropping the tape, and sweeping gently down, then back up the inside of Enjolras’s thigh. Enjolras's breath hitches, and Grantaire's grin is lascivious.

It doesn't escape Enjolras's notice that they're still alone down here, somehow, though his vision is tunneling down to Grantaire and _just_ Grantaire--

\--who turns his head, just slightly and Enjolras sucks in a breath as he feels Grantaire's nose brush against the front of his trousers. Enjolras gasps, quietly, and his hand stutters from his side to thread through Grantaire's hair. Grantaire opens his mouth, breathing out, warm against his clothed erection and Enjolras's fingers pull, tugging tightly. Grantaire's hand curls around his thigh, anchoring himself, and Enjolras's free hand moves to Grantaire's cheek. His sweeps his thumb along the curved bone, not looking away, and _what if he undid his trousers here, pulled his cock free? Would Grantaire take it, swallow him down? Would he--_

The stairs creak, and Grantaire is pulling away, hand dropping to grab the abandoned tape. Enjolras snaps his head up, meets Jehan's curiously raised eyebrow. He's exceptionally proud of the way his cheeks only _tinge_ pink. Grantaire's spine curves as he gets to his feet, a roll of his back, and Enjolras can feel his pulse hammering against his neck in arousal.

"Busy?" Jehan says, lips curved in a smile that screams knowing.

Grantaire just shrugs, smirks lazily, and responds, "Just finishing Enjolras's measurements."

"I bet," Jehan replies.

Grantaire gestures him over to the counter, licking his lips and Enjolras moves with a stiffness, fighting his frustration and the pressing of his erection. He watches Grantaire pull his pen out, scrawling the measurements down for his memory.

"Charcoal?" Grantaire questions, not looking at him. Enjolras starts at his voice, looking from his hand to his face and _oh,_ there's a faint blush on Grantaire's cheeks.

"Yes," Enjolras says, then belatedly, "Please."

"Right, well, er, we'll bring you back in for a fitting when the suit arrives," Grantaire says, and Enjolras is comforted by the fact he's lost for words, too.

"Okay, in that case," Enjolras starts, but Grantaire cuts him off with a forced smile.

"I'll call you," Grantaire says, saying one thing and definitely meaning another. His hand curls, shirt riding to show a brief hint of ink, and Enjolras has to turn away. He climbs back up the stairs, not saying goodbye, focusing instead on controlled breaths, _in and out_ , to curb the riot of his emotions.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he doesn't need to check it to know who it's from.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I live here: http://notmyrevolution.tumblr.com, come visit.


	3. Relief.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some days he hates it.

Some days he hates it.

Most days, Enjolras can tell you the minute differences between white, silver, cream, ivory, champagne and off-white. But today, the colours bleed together, making a blinding mess that gives him a headache.

There’s no colour up here, nothing to separate the dresses from the carpet. The only contrast comes from the black chairs and the dark suits of the mingling sales staff. Enjolras catches a glimpse of his red tie in one of the full-length mirrors and it’s like a beacon amongst all the  _white_.

It’s excruciating, pressing against his temples, a throb of pain each time he forces a smile at a bride-to-be and he’s forcing the smiles a lot today.

All he wants is to collapse into one of the leather couches. Upstairs is large enough that he could find a nook to stop in, to take several deep breathes. A fitting room, maybe, or the stock room. Except the stock room is just rail upon rail of the same thousand dresses he’s been staring at since nine in the morning, and Enjolras just wants to escape it, just for one selfish moment.

Something in Enjolras’s chest constricts, and he thinks instantly of warm mahogany and burgundy carpet, of black waistcoats and floral shirts. His feet move without his consent, leading him straight to the staircase. He passes Combeferre, who makes no move to stop him, who would be the only one to try, and then he’s descending, two at a time.

It’s instantaneous, the way the relief spreads. The tension behind his eyes is loosened by the smell of finely woven wool and a lingering scent of aftershave. He drinks in the reds, the purples, the charcoals and the blues.

“Enjolras,” Jehan says, standing near the suits, and his voice sounds like music. His smile is warm, genuine, a sharp change from upstairs, and Enjolras feels welcome, despite having no purpose here. Jehan pauses, and it feels like he’s looking straight into Enjolras’s soul. “It’s Grantaire’s day off.”

His tone is casual, though knowing, and Enjolras stops looking for someone who isn’t there.

“I don’t know why I’m down here,” he confesses, though it’s not an apology. “I just.”

He stops then, not sure how to explain himself. Jehan seems to understand anyway.

“You just wanted to escape?” He says quietly, then reaches out and presses cool fingers against Enjolras’s temples, massaging. Enjolras, forever tactile, lets him. It’s soothing.

“I get it,” Jehan continues, with a smile, and Enjolras knows he does, remembers when Jehan was the bride’s favourite darling upstairs. “It’s like another world down here. I don’t blame you from wanting to break away from the monotony.”

The small, circling movements of Jehan’s fingers work to relieve his aching head, and slow his breath in a way usually only Combeferre can manage. He’s getting like this more and more regularly, feelings himself growing closer to breaking point. The stress is worse, his tolerance for the blind faith everyone puts in him becoming like a thread pulled too taut. Downstairs helps, the way everything has Grantaire’s lingering presence, the way Jehan seems infinitely happier than he ever did before, and Enjolras knows he spends too much time down here.

He knows that each time, it gets harder to return upstairs.  

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I live here: http://notmyrevolution.tumblr.com, come visit.


End file.
